


Slender Threads And Things To Treasure

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lifeguards, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Meetings, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Mental Health Issues, Serendipity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: In which Clint is a lifeguard, Natasha has a mishap, and fate might deserve more credit than it gets.





	Slender Threads And Things To Treasure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gsparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/gifts).



> More comics than MCU, Kate and Lucky are there too, and my writing style does some odd somersaults. Written to fit a request for a non-office mundane AU and for the prompt _“The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.” (Karen Blixen)_
> 
> For the record, first posted [here](https://be-compromised.dreamwidth.org/534933.html).
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Dusk And Summer" by Dashboard Confessional.

Clint swims. He does so every morning, no matter the time of the year, the weather, the temperature of the air or the sea. He's spent so much of his life wilting away under the unforgiving sun, in a place that almost qualified for being a desert but couldn't quite commit to it, that he welcomes the cold. People are so often born in the wrong place, and sometimes he wonders whether the world has its own kind of system behind that, if the journey from where they hail to where they belong is a kind of test. Maybe fate doesn't think anyone deserves to be happy if they can't reach their perfect place in the world. Not a popular viewpoint on these things, and he knows that. The idea of a higher power, an orchestra in which all of them are a single note, is easier to bear when thought of as benevolent. And Clint would never disabuse anyone of such an uplifting outlook. It's just that experience has taught him better. 

He's been in the too-cold water for too long, and his muscles are starting to cramp, his lungs burning with the effort of supplying his body with enough oxygen to keep him going. It feels a little bit like drowning even though he hasn't swallowed a single drop of water. Or, well. Not more than usual. From chipping come chips. That's another lesson life taught him young. 

The threshold isn't far away now, the one past which his body will start refusing to function in his favor. Safety when relinquishing oneself to the sea is part of his job these days, but he's generally better at preaching it to other people. They are important. Their lives matter. His own... well, he thinks he’s worth more than he used to, and he figures that's a big step in the right direction. His self-preservation instincts have recovered to the point where the pain that's slowly taking hold of his body, the beginning numbness, do get enough attention that he decides it's time to go back. 

A lifeguard drowning on his morning swim might be the kind of ironic twist he likes, and the kind of headline he'd like to leave behind. But if he dies out here then there's no small chance of Kate having to be the one that retrieves his body, because it's not like she'd trust anyone else with that, and she'd probably be less amused. 

As he emerges from the waves that gently roll to shore, he's shivering, goosebumps spreading all over, and he has the distant thought that he'd never expected California would be capable of being so cold. And it isn't, most of the time. An endless summer dream, except for when it's not, and maybe that's a good thing, that even his very own version of paradise has cold and rainy days. It might not feel real otherwise. 

He inhales the chilly air, drops of sea water drying on his skin, and it hurts a little to breathe. But that's okay; it's a good pain, the kind that makes him feel his body to the fullest, makes him feel alive, makes him smile as he treks through the heavy sand and towards the beach house he calls home. 

 

*** 

 

The house was empty when he got back, Clint is reasonably sure, but by the time he pads out of the shower and into the main room, pulling a t-shirt over his head, there's the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air, the dog is nowhere to be seen, and soft classical music wafts from the small radio on the kitchen counter. All of these are surefire signs that Kate has taken over the house. That's not news; she does basically every morning. She has a shiny, elegant, expensive apartment in the city to her name, but claims that it's been paid for with blood money and the smell makes her nauseous if she stays there for longer than an hour past waking up. The money well has since dried up – been turned off, more accurately – and so she can't afford to move. She says it's like living in a coffin. 

Clint can relate to the latter, even though the box he spent his adolescence in was much less expensive and definitely not the least bit shiny. Still, he gets it, and that's why he lets her spend every waking hour at his place. Besides, he likes having her around; she manages to be the right kind of loud and the right kind of quiet at the exact same time. 

And hey, that she shoves a full mug of coffee his way without asking just as soon as he's within reach sure is another point in her favor. Also, sure enough, Lucky has already settled by her feet and doesn't seem inclined to acknowledge Clint's presence beyond cocking his head and giving a soft _wuff_. Traitor. 

“How was your swim?” Kate asks, never even taking her nose out of the newspaper she brought along, like she does every morning. Clint never much cared for those, figured all the important news will reach him sooner or later, but he's taken to reading the editorials sometimes before he throws them away. And the book recs. Whoever writes those has good taste. 

He takes a sip from his mug and sucks the air in between his teeth, then blows on the steaming hot liquid in full knowledge that the effect will be minimal. He takes another sip anyway, because _coffee_ , and this time it hurts less because he knows what's coming. 

“Fucking ice cold,” he answers eventually, with a grin directed at the top of her head, for everything else is still hidden behind a wall of somber headlines. “And therefore perfect.” 

Kate finally lowers the paper and considers him, squinting. “You're so weird.” 

“Yep,” Clint confirms, and reaches for an apple from the basket on the counter, by the way of breakfast, just so she won't be able to nag at him for not eating anything before his morning shift. “Anyway, I'll be off. Make yourself useful and go grocery shopping. Food money's in the – “ 

“Gross old cookie tin in the cupboard behind the cereal boxes,” Kate interrupts, folding the paper up, and she yawns. Her shift won't begin until noon and he is absolutely a hundred percent certain she'll take a nap on his couch just as soon as he's out the door. “I know.” 

 

*** 

 

Given that it's a Monday morning in the off season, Clint doesn't expect a busy shift. He brought a new book along and he wouldn't be surprised if he'd be halfway through by the end of the day. And that's fine. He's still outside on the beach, he still gets to watch the sea move with the harsh winter wind and smell actual salt water, instead of the whiff of various food trucks, and call that _work_. He likes his job all year round – crowded summer days or days like these, cool and quiet – but the people aren't why he picked it. They're not why he's here. 

He's roundabout on page 70 when a couple makes its way onto the beach, with a blanket and a basket like it's June, not December, and he watches curiously while the man – tall and blond and dressed in jeans and a hoodie – spreads said blanket and unloads a few plastic boxes with food, while the woman undresses down to a plain black bathing suit. Not like it looks plain on her: she's beautiful, her body strong and curved, long and curly red hair setting off the black of the suit and her pale skin, and it's only half professional watchfulness that has Clint's eyes following her intently as she walks towards the shore. 

Her entire posture tightens when she reaches the water; it crashes gently around her ankles and she shivers, arms wrapped around her torso to keep warm, and Clint thinks that will be it, that she's had her taste and she'll change her mind and go back to sit on the blanket and eat the boxed food. But she doesn't turn back. She turns back and waves to her... boyfriend? Husband? Clint will never know. The guy waves back, and she faces the sea again, nods to herself, and _runs_. The water splashes around her and she dives in, taking the first few meters in long strokes, the only part of her that remains visible from this far away the red hair, it's color darkened now that it's wet. 

Clint shifts on his chair. Longing curses through him, even though he had his own morning swim only hours ago. But the sea is like an addiction, and goosebumps break out all over his skin at just the memory of being enveloped by shockingly cold water, of working past the discomfort and feeling vibrant life curse through his body with every move as a reward. 

And then his _blood_ runs cold because from one blink to the next, she's gone. The beacon of her hair amidst the waves is nowhere to be seen anymore, and the boyfriend-husband-whatever jumps off his blanket and starts for the watchtower, waving his arms. Clint holds up a hand, sheds his jacket and takes off running himself. His attention remains on the water, on constant lookout for any sign of her, and he doesn't even feel the welcoming chill of the cold water when he charges in after her, hoping he's right in remembering where he last saw her swim. He takes a gulp of air and holds it, diving into the deep water, too deep to stand. Stays below the surface until his lungs burn, he resurfaces just to take another deep inhale, and does it all over again. 

He finds her on the third try, long red hair streaming through the water in front of her, and he hooks his arms under her armpits and brings her back up with him. She thrashes in his hold, coughing violently as soon as her head is above water, and he secures her against his side and then hurries to get them back to the beach. She finds her feet in the shallows, walks out mostly under her own steam, but when he looks at her she's white as a sheet and her eyes are wide and she's still heaving with panicked, irregular breathes. 

Clint rubs her shoulder, smiles when she looks up at him. “It's okay. My name is Clint, and I've got you. Try and calm down. You're save. Breathe in, breathe out.” 

She doesn't say anything, but she nods, eyes still transfixed on him. Her hold on him tightens. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then does it again. By the time they reach the watchtower and her pacing, worried boyfriend-husband-whatever, her breathing is almost back to normal. Clint sits her down on his chair and gets a large towel from inside, wraps it around her shoulders, tells the guy to get her clothes. 

“My leg cramped,” she says, gaze trained on her hands, drawing the towel tightly around herself. “I couldn't... I thought...” Another deep breath, and then she sits up straighter. “It was stupid. I've swum in much colder water, back home. And I'm only in town for a week, for a conference, and didn't want to miss my chance to swim in the ocean.” 

“That's not stupid,” Clint says, and he means it when he adds, “I would have done exactly the same.” 

She looks up at him and smiles, her lips blue, her hair in disarray, wrapped into that stupid bright orange towel, and Clint's quite sure he's never seen anyone more beautiful. “I'm glad you understand.” 

He briefly wonders what _home_ might have been and where she lives when she's not in L.A. for conferences, but he's kept from asking when maybe-colleague gets back with her clothes on one arm, wringing the back of his neck with the other. He doesn't hug her, doesn't say anything, just glances from one to the other with an expression that looks like a mix of awkward and worried. 

“You can change inside,” Clint tells her, pointing, and she takes the clothes from the other man's arm and smiles apologetically at them both before she walks into the watchtower's staff room and closes the door behind her. 

Clint passes the time by watching the now once again vacant beach, the quiet waves, dwarfing all of them before their vastness. Someone almost just died in its embrace, but that doesn't have much of impact on the sea as a whole. Death lurks beneath its surface and yet it is not malevolent; it just _is_. Accidents happen, and Clint would never blame them on the sea. The sea doesn't care, either which way. 

“By the way,” she says upon her return, and Clint startles at the sound of her voice. “I'm Natasha, and this is Steve. And I might quite possibly owe you my life.” 

Clint rubs the back of his neck. “It's my job.” 

“Doesn't mean I'm any less thankful,” Natasha says, and Clint startles again when she touches his wrist, coming up on her tiptoes to kiss to his cheek. He looks from her to Steve and back, and feels his face heat. He's used to getting hugged; doesn't like it, not from strangers, but it happens often enough that he learned to process it. This is new. This is different. This is... _nice_. 

His cheek keeps tingling even after the gentle press of her lips is long gone, after Steve has lent her his hoodie, after they thanked him again and said their goodbyes and packed up their food and their blanket and went home. 

 

*** 

 

Clint comes home after his shift to find the house dark and the dog alone on the rug in the living room, fast asleep, and decides to follow his example. It's technically too late for a nap but Clint's kind of catching his zzzs whenever they offer themselves, and so he toes off his shoes and faceplants into bed. He's woken a few hours later by the ringtone of his phone, some tinny cheap version of _La Cucaracha_ that Kate's girlfriend once installed as a joke and that he never bothered changing. 

“What,” he mumbles into the speaker, face still buried in his pillow so he's not sure it's even audible at all. He even ignores the warm and wet sensation that tells him Lucky's planning to worm his way back into his good graces and has started licking Clint's fingers by the way of a good morning. 

There's considerable background noise from the speaker, a diner or a bar or a shopping mall or some shit, and Kate talks to someone else for a moment before she directs her attention back to him. “I hear you got to be a big hero today.” 

She sounds mocking but proud, which is really the kind of thing most other people wouldn't pull off. Clint groans. “I saved someone from drowning. Which just so happens to be our job. We do that almost every day in the summer.” 

“Yes,” Kate says, and the background noise swells for a moment, then dies down, like she went to the bathroom or somewhere similar. “But it's winter now and so it's big news.” The sound of a door opening, then another resurgence of the noise. “Oh fuck this,” Kate declares then. “We can't talk like this. I'm coming over. Get decent and wash some plates, I'll bring pizza.” 

He'd protest, but for one, it's not like she'd listen to him if he told her no, and for another, she used the three magic words and now he's hungry. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, and pads into the kitchen to get some already clean plates from the cupboard. Because Kate dramatizes things. He's not the cleanliest guy around, that much is true, but it's not _that_ bad, thank you very much. 

She arrives half an hour later with two large pizza cartons and no explanation as to what she was doing before or what kind of social event she fled from, and they both settle on the couch, Lucky between them, getting fed the crust from each of their pizza slices and wagging his tail so hard Clint worries it might fall off. He's given a grace period of two slices before Kate deposits her plate on the coffee table and shifts to face him. 

“Alright,” she says. “Spill.” 

And Clint does. He gives her the play-by-play, without exaggeration because she'd know, sober facts and nothing else. Or so he thinks, because once he's done she leans back and smirks, and he just _knows_ she found something in there he wasn't even aware he was giving away. 

“You know,” she says, but she's still grinning so he can tell she doesn't mean it, “one of the first things we're told is how unprofessional it would be to get a crush on someone we just fished out of the ocean.” 

Clint parks his latest slice in midair, puts it back on the plate and sits up. “I don't have a crush.” 

“You waxed poetically about her hair at last twice, and spent more time describing her smile than you did describing the actual rescue,” Kate kindly summarizes for him. “You're smitten.” 

He... okay, he'd be lying if he'd deny that outright. He was somewhat charmed. But. “It doesn't matter. She's only in town for a week, I have no idea where she's staying, and I likely won't ever see her again.” 

“Did you at least get a last name?” Kate inquires, and her expression turns sympathetic when he shakes his head, listless and defeated. She leans over and pats his shoulder. “Hey if you want to go and spend all night stalking every convention avenue around the city so you can find her and make a big, rom-com style confession in the middle of a crowded lobby, I'm game.” 

Clint flops back against the couch and reaches out to idly stroke a hand through Lucky's fur. “You watch too many movies.” 

 

***

 

On the general list of things that are important to Clint, romance never ranked too high. He's been in love, sure, and he's had relationships, but they happened by accident and never lasted long. He's aware that he isn't an easy person to get close to. He’s made his peace with that. Life isn't perfect, and as long as he's safe and employed and has friends he can count on, he'll consider himself happy. He knows what an existence without either of these things feels like. 

All that doesn't mean he won't _want_ to get close to someone every now and then. 

It's been three days since he pulled Natasha out of the ocean, and he keeps shoving the thought of her away whenever it comes up. That she's in the city for work doesn't mean the guy – Steve – wasn't her boyfriend. She might live in New York or Chicago or anywhere else that's basically on the other end of this fucking huge-ass country. 

He gets up and takes Lucky's leash off its hook by the door, whistles in case that wasn't enough to get the mutt's attention. He needn't have worried: Lucky is already beelining from the kitchen to the hallway, wagging not only his tail but moving his whole body in his excitement. Clint commands him to sit before he clicks the leash on, and from there on in Lucky turns into the very picture of calm obedience. He's a smart dog. He knows when his walks or treats are secure and he can stop begging or flipping out. 

Clint doesn't have a route in mind, never does, only takes care to switch them up now and then. The dog was kind of an accident, and there's a few cliche, static dog owner things Clint has vowed to avoid. Dragging the poor thing along for the same five to ten minute walk every day is one of them. 

Nightfall happened maybe an hour ago, the streets as dark as they ever get near the city, and that's one thing he misses about the rural Midwest: nights of near impenetrable black, illuminated only by the stars in the sky above. Finding places to hide was a big part of his childhood, and the dark made it easier. He was never afraid of it. The dark was his friend. He goes where Lucky wants to go, lets the mutt pull at his leash and then follows that path, and it's easy to forget his surroundings when they're only visible as increasingly vague skyline silhouettes anyway. 

He doesn't notice he's walking past the L.A. Convention Center until he's practically standing in the parking lot, the large illuminated signs unavoidable. For a fleeting second, he considers things like fate: the statistical likelihood that today, of all days, he'll end up here, and that Natasha will indeed be in _this_ building and maybe one of the powers that be is trying to throw him a bone and all he'll have to do is walk inside and wait and he'll bump into her again. 

But that's bullshit. Life doesn't work for that way, outside of movies and fairytales. He shrugs, pulls at Lucky's leash to make him turn around, and heads back home.

 

 

*****

 

 

Clint doesn't know what to do with vacation days. He doesn't travel too much – he's already living in the place he always dreamed to see, right by the ocean, and it's not like he's got family that's worth visiting – and the fact that he's working in shifts means he mostly manages to organize all these annoying little life things around his working hours. He's not a big TV watcher and he can't sleep in most of the time anyway. But every so often the boss will look at him down her nose and say his last name a certain way and Clint will know it's time to stay home for a couple of days, whether he actually needs them or not. 

He's on his third vacation day out of five, he's already read two entire books and he's been to the theater twice and he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. It's late spring and he's just done his morning swim, and he's looking for the controller to the video game console Kate gave him two Christmases ago, but what he finds are his running shoes. He bought them during his first summer in L.A., figures he might as well go all in with the health and sports thing, but grew tired of it rather quickly. Too boring. Too much time to think. Plus, he doesn't need a special schedule or occasion to _run_. But as he sits there on his haunches, looking back and forth between the box with the shoes and the prospect of installing the console before he gets to use it at all, he figures, well. Might as well, right? He's got a smartphone now with music on it. Maybe it wouldn't be quite as boring if he ran while he listens to a podcast; he's behind on those anyway. And he could discover a new habit. 

He takes the shoes out of the box and pads into the bedroom to change, apologizes to Lucky for leaving without him _again_ with an extra long set of ear scritches, and then he's off to do some running. A long route through the State Park, giving the more hilly parts a wide berth. Something easy, something to forget everything but the true crime podcast recounting gory details of murders twenty years past into his ears. He slows down at some point, but it's three episodes later when he decides to make his way out of the park again and maybe head towards the tourist traps. He'll find a cafe that's not in any major chain and splurge on a hand-grind imported coffee before he makes his way home and figures out whether or not video games are really meant to be in his future. 

All set with an Italian blend and a free newspaper – dammit, Kate – from a display next to the counter, he settles in a corner booth where, hopefully, no one will wrinkle their nose about him being sweaty and possibly smelling just a bit. He's reading a book review for a non-fiction tome that he knows he'll never talk himself into spending fifty books on when he hears his name from the a few seats away. At least, he thinks it's his name. Maybe he's delirious, should have opted for something with more electrolytes after that run. 

He looks up, and does a double take. Rubs his knuckles into his eyes. Looks again. 

“Clint,” she says again. She's wearing makeup and her long red hair is done up into a strict topknot, but there's no doubt – it's her. Natasha. “It's so great to run into you. I've been wondering if I should look you up, say hi, and here you are.” 

Clint blinks. He grips his coffee pot a little tighter. Ah. He should reply something. “Hi?” 

Basically the opposite of aplomb, but Natasha doesn't seem to mind. She gestures to the booth opposite him, sits down when he nods. “Hi.” She smiles, which appears to be genuine delight. “I apologize if this is too forward, but I'm going to ask for your number first thing this time. I was a little bit... preoccupied last time, but I'm not letting you get away again.” 

She fishes a notepad and a pen out of her handbag and slides it over the table, and Clint dutifully scribbles his cell number on there and slides it back. That's basically instinct; be told what to do, and do it. Easy. Getting his brain to come all the way back online proves a bit harder. He's just so confused. He gave up on her. Hasn't thought about her much since New Year's Eve – it's been one of his resolutions, actually. He was so sure. And here she is, proving him wrong. 

“How?” he asks, and yes, that seems like a good place to start. A bit imprecise, though, on second thought. “I mean, how are you here? Another conference?” 

Natasha flags down the waiter and then braces her chin on her hands, never taking her eyes off him. _Ohh_. That's a good sign, if he's not entirely mistaken. “I moved here a few weeks ago. Got headhunted at the conference, and it took awhile to make it happen, but I finally left New York in the rear-view mirror. It's funny, I wasn't even gonna go. A co-worker got the stomach flu and I had to take his place.” 

Clint has never been headhunted or worked in a job that offered him all-expenses flights across the country, but he sure knows a thing or two about sudden life-changing events. It's just that they mostly weren't all that positive, for him. “Poor guy. But that one week really changed your life, huh?” 

“Yeah.” She reaches out, places one hand on the table, palm up, and Clint doesn't even have to think about it – he also reaches out and places his hand atop hers. Her smile grows wider. “Would you like to go out with me later in the week? See if we can change it just a little more?” 

Clint nods. He'd like nothing better.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
